


real

by Areiton



Series: Steter Week 2018 [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Trauma, Future Fic, Good Peter, M/M, POV Peter Hale, PTSD, Post-Season/Series 06, Touch-Starved, Unresolved Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 09:04:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15433623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: He moves like he’s fragile and old, like a strong gust of wind will shatter him, flinches away from the pack like a single touch will break him open.





	real

**Author's Note:**

> DAY WHATEVER! (Four?)  
> I don't even know what happened here. It's only vaguely touch starved? But whatever, have some Steter, y'all.

When he comes back from the Wild Hunt, he’s different.

Scott doesn’t notice, but then Scott doesn’t notice a lot when it comes to Stiles. Of all the things in life that Scott does not deserve, Stiles’ friendship and loyalty is the one that annoys Peter the most.

He calls Peter, after he leaves. Sometimes it’s just a quick call, sleepy before he falls asleep, and sometimes it’s shaking terror that lasts for hours while Peter soothes him with nonsense.

Sometimes, he calls and puts Peter on speaker phone, and they’re quiet together, Stiles studying and Peter busy with his own work, and separated by two thousand miles, Peter doesn’t feel quite as alone.

Derek notices, when he swings through on his ever spiraling chase for Kate. He listens to the conversations, and even calls his greetings to Stiles, and after, when Peter’s hung up and faces his nephew, he smiles, gently. “I’m glad for you. He’s good for you--and you’re good for him.”

 

~*~

 

It’s a curious thing, being good for anyone.

 

~*~

 

He comes back from Virginia with Derek in tow, in the madness of Monroe’s assault and Gerard’s reappearance and for the first time--Peter considers staying.

He considers not leaving this thrice damned town, if only because Stiles is here.

He tells himself it’s because after the Hunt, they’re bound together by trauma, and sometimes he even believes it.

But sometimes, Stiles will glance at him, and his eyes are wild, frantic the way they were in the train station, and Peter knows it’s not only what they survived.

It’s what they are still surviving.

 

~*~

 

It takes him almost two months after they defeat Monroe to realize what’s happening.

To realize that Stiles is not quite pack, not anymore.

To realize that he isn’t either. That stings less--he has always been outside looking in, and he can’t even blame Scott for that. For all that he has blossomed as a werewolf--even a spectacularly _bad_ werewolf--it was never something he consented to and he will always regret Peter for it.

That doesn’t rankle. He is an absent, unwanted father for Malia, a reminder of weakness and trauma for Lydia, the perpetrator of everything he never wanted for Scott, and for the puppies Scott has collected, he’s the boogeyman.

But Stiles--Stiles has saved the pack, over and over, has risked himself and his sanity and his future, and always come through--and he is distant. The pack moves around him like he’s a strange relative they know they have to tolerate, but are uncomfortable around.

And Peter _sees_ how much it hurts him, sees the way Stiles flinches away from them even when he’s smiling and still, the way he makes excuses to be elsewhere, even as he builds a life in Beacon Hills.

It’s heartbreaking and infuriating, and Peter hates them, all of them, for what they’re doing to his beautiful boy.

 

~*~

 

He wonders, sometimes, when he began to think of Stiles as his.

 

~*~

 

He’s contained, after the Hunt.

Quieter, something Peter had noticed while they spoke on the phone, but it’s impossible to miss here. His movements are precise, contained, none of the helpless flailing that Peter had come to adore in Stiles. He moves like he’s fragile and old, like a strong gust of wind will shatter him, flinches away from the pack like a single touch will break him open.

And Peter realizes--even when Stiles is in the midst of the pack, he is never touched.

 

~*~

 

Once he sees it, he can’t _unsee_ it. And he realizes--Stiles smells of medicine and Cheetos, of gun oil and sweat and sometimes of lube that Peter refuses to think about. But he never smells of anyone but himself. Never has any pack scents layered into his skin or clothes, or even strangers, brushing against him.

Stiles _smells_ lonely.

And it makes something in Peter ache.

 

~*~

 

“It’s creepy, Peter,” Stiles says, sharply.

Peter doesn’t answer, doesn’t look away.

“Stop. I’m fine.”

“I know you’re lying,” Peter says, patiently, and furious hurt and helpless defeat blossom in his scent.

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want your help. Stop stalking me.”

 

~*~

 

He waits.

Because it’s Stiles, and he likes Stiles, but more than that--he _respects_ Stiles, and Stiles doesn’t want help. Not yet.

So he waits. It rankles, and his wolf is furious, snarling and snapping, but.

He waits.

 

~*~

 

He isn’t surprised to find Stiles in his apartment, after another near miss with Monroe’s hunters, and Scott bringing yet another stray into the ever growing army.

Stiles is sitting on the couch, and there’s a touch of blood on his scent, but not so much that it makes Peter worry.

There is something desperate there, something that makes him pause in the doorway, watching Stiles’ leg jiggle nervously, and his hands tap out a too quick rhythm on the coffee table.

“Why do you stay?” he asks, not looking up at Peter, and Peter sighs.

He could lie.

Say it’s for the pack, or ancestral land, or hell, even Derek.

Stiles would believe those last two.

Instead. “Because you do,” he says, honestly, and Stiles head snaps up.

His eyes are wide and hopeful and Peter holds his breath.

“Where would you go, if I left?”

“Wherever you did,” Peter says, evenly. “And if you wouldn’t allow that--somewhere you could find me.”

A small smile strings across his lips. “I’ll always find you, creeper wolf.”

Peter’s hands itch to reach out, to gather him close, but he stays still. Nods. “I know you will, sweetheart.”

 

~*~

 

He presses against Peter, slowly, _slowly_ , while the movie plays, and Peter tries very hard not to drag him closer, forces himself still, and patient, and soaks in the shaky sigh Stiles gives, and the way he goes boneless and drops into sleep as he snuggles against Peter’s side.

 

~*~

 

It’s a dance. Stiles pulls away every time he lets Peter close, spends days and weeks distant, before he slips back into Peter’s apartment, and curls against him on the couch.

It’s maddening, because he _knows_ Stiles needs more than what he’s allowing himself. But Stiles trusts him, even if it’s just the small amount, and he won’t push, won’t demand more, not until Stiles is ready.

 

~*~

 

The succubus fucks with Stiles’ head.

He thinks the dance would continue forever, if it weren’t for the succubus.

It targets Derek, because who else would a succubus target, but Stiles is close enough to Derek that he doesn’t escape the bitch’s spells.

It worries Peter, that he doesn’t see Stiles after they kill her. Derek packs up and is gone in a matter of hours, running like he always does when shit gets overwhelming, but Stiles--Stiles doesn’t run.

Even when self-preservation and sense says to, Stiles _stays_.

He finds Stiles in his room, curled in a nest of blankets, shivering in his sleep.

For a long moment, he debates and then, the boy whimpers and Peter huffs, stripping off his jeans and crawling into Stiles bed.

And Stiles--Stiles melts into it, burrows into him with a tiny sigh, contentment radiating off of him.

“‘S’not real,” his boy mumbles.

“I am,” Peter murmurs and Stiles huffs, grumbling in his sleep and Peter holds him close as he turns over that tiny statement.

It makes a strange kind of sense.

He remembers when he first woke up from the coma, and even right after the Hunt, when he questioned reality.

Stiles, who was thrown into the supernatural, who was possessed and stolen away and had the ground ripped out from under him so many times--is it any wonder that he questions reality?

Peter holds him close, and presses a kiss into Stiles’ hair. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re a fucking mess.”

 

~*~

 

Stiles wakes with a yelp, jerking in his arms, and Peter tightens them for a moment, before he releases the boy.

Stiles stares for a long moment, and then mumbles, “Fuck.”

“How long have you been questioning reality?” Peter asks.

Stiles stiffens, and then, deliberately relaxes. “What makes you think I am?”

“It’s since the nogitsune, isn’t it? But worse, since the Hunt. It’s why you keep your distance from the pack, why you don’t let anyone touch you.”

Stiles stares at him and Peter nods. “I’m real, Stiles.”

“What if you’re not?” he whispers, and it’s so plaintive it makes something in Peter’s chest ache. “What--what if I think you are, what if I _need_ you, and you aren’t?”

“I am,” Peter says, gently. “And I’m not going away. Whatever you need, whenever you need it--I’m here, Stiles. This is real.”

 

~*~

 

Three days later, he opens his door and Stiles crashes into him. His hands are almost claws, clinging with a ferocity that would startle him, if it were anyone else.

His lips, though.

His lips are soft, desperate and even as he kisses Peter, he’s whispering, shaping words, begging.

“Don’t go. Please, please be real. I can’t, I--Peter, _please.”_

He hums under the boy’s desperate touch, winds an arm around his waist and draws him close.

“I’m not going anywhere, darling. I’m here. I’m real. We’re real.”

Stiles hiccups out a sob, and Peter kisses him, licks into his mouth, sucks gently on his lip and drags too sharp teeth over the swollen curve. He palms Stiles ass and grinds against him.

“We’re _real_ . We _survived.”_

Stiles’ eyes are shiny and wet when he stares up at Peter, and whispers, “Prove it to me.”

 

~*~

 

Later, spent and sticky and Stiles still sprawled over him, Peter runs a pattern over his pale back that’s marked with Peter’s bruises. The tension has run out of Stiles’ body, and he’s pliant and warm and smells intoxicatingly of _them._

“Will you stay?” Stiles whispers, like he’s terrified of Peter’s answer.

“Always, darling,” Peter murmurs and Stiles smiles at him, shy and sweet.

“And if I want to go?”

Peter kisses him and murmurs against his lips. “Tell me where.”

 

~*~

 

They move into a tiny house in Florence and Peter marks the kitchen wall with his claw, every morning, something that Stiles touches like a talisman. Still. Stiles stares at him sometimes, his eyes shadowed and uncertain, and Peter presses his fingers into the bruises he leaves on Stiles wrists and hips and collar.

He arches into the touch, needy and content, because the flare of pain reminds him--this is real.

They’re real.

They survived.  

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://areiton.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
